So it is, Mr. Kyle; so it is.

God to fuck's sake; that's it, I'm going to do something that wine can't fuck up.

NOW FUCKING TYPE NOW DON'T TYPE NO WHEN YOU MEAN NOW, YOU FUCKING SHITDRIP.

I'm not dead, oh no.

Herp, Herp, Herp. Blond isn't a race, neither is it a procession. The very notion of race is an arbitrary distinction based on visual interpretation. Our Doritos (fucking sp) of skin color is a relatively recent genetic development and does not constitute a reasonable difference.
The more you know and all that.

Er, a cautious thanks, Herpes. But if I've been getting drunk, dropping my trousers and yelling 'gooble gobble' instead of 'gooba gabba' at every family event then I'll feel really foolish.

Wait, Wait… I've just realized where I am and YES, you have every right to be confused.

I'm also confused. But that's because I'm drunk as Lady Chatterley's Lover. (And no, I don't give a fuck about the spelling of Clitterly, over-rated fucking book of shit.)

Now I'm Dickface.

You beat me to the number, JVS, salut. However, I stand by anal rape as the only suitable ending to a Star Trek episode.

Or is it BOLDLY going forward again? I don't know; stick with the chicken song or whatever that dick-swill was called.

Ah, what about the headless biker in Nightstalker? Maybe HIS head (along with face) was actually in his pants. If so, the Yummsh could ride a motorcycle to work and have a naturally long torso.

AGAIN WITH THE FUCKING TYPOS. It's mAy, you fucking tall-hatted, white dress wearing bastard.

4. Anal rape.

Only going forward, things are getting worse.

Thanks, Riff. I can no sleep safely, safe in the knowledge that my sanity is eroding no further. Not bright? Maybe. But look at the hair, just look at the hair, that's hair right there.

Let me stress, between the dudes in the picture.

Wait, if I squint… If I take my galsses off… Ah, yes, if I stop confusing Charles Sheen from Eight Men Out with Chuck Sheen from Major League then I can sort of see what you're getting at, CN.

You're welcome, Drinky. I shall now imitate your handle and have a drink to celebrate.

And, like, how did they retain OUR nationalities when they live so far into the future? Shit doesn't stay still, people, shit moves, it swirls and twirls and contains undigested chunks of pasta shells which peek out like cheeky sailors.